


A sacred and commanding word

by gloss



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, He'd do anything for her, Mother's Day, Their issues match up frighteningly well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-07 10:06:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6799495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From <a href="http://deputychairman.tumblr.com/post/144058623688">tumblr</a>: "ok but the real question is whether Poe gets something for Leia [for Mother's Day]".</p><p>I got to thinking about war and mothers and generational logics. And porn. Again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A sacred and commanding word

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Deputychairman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deputychairman/gifts).



> Thanks so much to aphrodite_mine for cheering and insight. Originally [here](http://spaceoperafeerie.tumblr.com/post/144067989294/deputychairman-gokuma-imagine-bb-8-not-fully), now cleaned up and edited.
> 
> Title from Julia Ward Howe, Mother's Day Proclamation (1870): "But women need no longer be made a party to proceedings which fill the globe with grief and horror. Despite the assumptions of physical force, the mother has a sacred and commanding word to say to the sons who owe their life to her suffering. That word should now be heard, and answered to as never before."

No, because he respects her as a leader, he always did, rather than as a mother. Of course that respect and rigid distinction between mother and warrior is terrifically complicated by the fact that his own mom very well may have been a lot better at piloting than mothering. Either way, how would he know, since he lost her so young?

Poe finds it strange and difficult to think of Leia as an actual mother. When he learns what happened to her son, what her son made himself into, then his feelings pass through difficult right into horror and sorrow. Ben may have loudly hated Solo, but he damn well _erased_ Leia. He ignored and rejected – then slaughtered – everything she believes in and has fought for her entire life. If he thinks of her at all, she is nothing more than Vader's genetic carrier.

So, no, Poe doesn't get her anything. He _does_ show up uninvited with three bottles of Corellian wine (he can't know that it was Solo's favourite seduction tool [unless he _does_ know]) and a bribe for Threepio to clear her schedule and make sure she's not interrupted for anything short of Snoke's personal arrival on base.

She knows exactly what he's up to – Poe is a very kind, thoughtful, and, indeed, pretty damn smooth man, but when it comes to the people he cares about, he's about as devious as _Luke_. 

All the same, she lets him play at distracting her. He has stocked up on some exceptionally good gossip and new bawdy jokes. He keeps pouring the wine and nudging her glass, urging her to enjoy herself, until she's laughing and pink-cheeked.

She has her legs folded up, her head resting on her hand, as she holds out her glass for another refill.

"One more," she says, "and then I really must get back to work."

Poe's collar is open, his hairline damp with sweat. He can hold his liquor just fine, but he holds it in both arms, all but cooing at it. It makes its presence known in the flush down his throat, the shine to his eyes, the slightly accelerated speed of his speech. "Nope, can't have that."

"And yet," Leia says, taking a sip, running her finger around the rim of the glass, "that's the way it is."

He drags his chair closer, so close that his knees bump the edge of her chaise. "What if it wasn't?"

He looks so fucking _earnest_ , too, as if the thought has just occurred to him and he is so, so proud to share this world-changing insight with her.

Leia laughs at him, then, when he frowns a little, hurt and confused, she pats his cheek. "There's nothing to be done."

He turns his face, pressing his lips against her palm. She presses back, to stop him from speaking. He looks at her with dark wet eyes and opens his mouth, lip dragging down her skin, to push his tongue against her hand. When she bears down, she feels his teeth, watches his eyes widen slightly. He pushes forward, enough to change the angle, make her feel the edges of his teeth and the broad, unrelenting presence of his tongue.

"I don't want to hear it," she tells him. "Not a word. Do you understand?"

He nods slowly, eyes still fixed on hers. His lips move, purse, against the hollow of her palm. When she lifts her hand away, he licks his lower lip as slowly as a lizard moves in sunlight. She's not sure he has even blinked yet. She shifts around, hand on the back of his neck now, and he gets it, slides off his chair and sinks to his knees, his chair falling behind him. She squeezes his neck, runs her fingers through the curls on his nape, then twists until his head is bent back, looking right at her. His mouth falls open, just like that.

The wine does not slow her. She keeps her fingers tangled in his hair as she shifts, unfolds, opens above him. He sucks on his lower lip now; his hands flex on his thighs but do not move. She pulls up her skirt, gets one leg free of her panties, then _swings_ it over his far shoulder, and all the while, he _watches_ her. His lip is fuller than ever, dark red, caught in his teeth. When she slips to the edge of the chaise and cants up her hips, she doesn't have to tug his hair, let alone tell him what to do. 

He inclines forward, carries her hand with him, his back making a long, perfect line, to press his face against one inner thigh, then the other. He's inhaling deeply, running the edge of his teeth and tip of his tongue back and forth, scoring her skin until she opens wider. Now she _does_ push him. 

He meets her with open mouth and the flat of his tongue, then holds as she moves against him, up and down. Her fingers are snarled in his hair now; his stubble grates against the very top of her thighs. His nose rides the flare of her inner lips as he opens her with his tongue, lapping at her until she moves with him, rocking into his mouth.

When he slides his tongue upward, she clenches at its loss, around the sudden absence, then shouts as he curls it around her clit. She shoves up against him, pushing for it, scraping her nails into his scalp. He teases at the hood, sucks on the shaft, then the whole thing, head and root and skin, so deep that he might swallow her whole.

She almost begs for it, then bites her tongue, her lip. She grinds against his chin and tongue until he's travelling back downward, taking both inner lips between his teeth, sucking her until she swells and the moans do break out of her mouth.

"Hand," she gets out. "Use your hand, too."

He nods at that, face still buried in her, stubble rasping her labia now, and returns to her clit while he drags his hand back and forth across her hole until it's nearly as slick as she is. 

The first time Han fingered her, she nearly cried at the immensity of two inside her. _Uptight **everywhere** , huh, princess? At least you're consistent._ Now, she can start with three, then demand more, fuck herself down on his joystick hand, then up into his mouth, her clit massive and _glorious_ , pulsing between his lips.

She comes on four of his fingers, rubbing herself against his lips and chin. Somehow he stills more, head bent, curls parting to show the paler skin of his scalp, along his hairline. When the ripples and convulsions slow, reach her far edges and start to fade into fuzz, she pulls on those curls again, rocks her hips back up, and he renews all the attention.

She comes again, and a third time, his hand buried to the last knuckle of his thumb, fingers starting to curl into a fist, while his tongue relentlessly flicks the head of her clit.

When she tries, finally, to pull him off, he does moan. The noise is brief, more a shard of sound than anything complete. He tips back his head to meet her eyes, his lids heavy as he smiles. His face is soaked, shining, the skin around his mouth and chin red.

He mouths _thank you_ , and again, as she tries as gently as possible to extricate her fingers from his hair. Then she smoothes back the mess of curls over his forehead. He turns into the touch, eyes drifting closed, looking for all the world like a sleepy child.


End file.
